


The Last Temptation of Draco Malfoy

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Chastity Device, Community: hp_kinkfest, Erotica, HP: EWE, Infidelity, M/M, Parseltongue, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Snakes as Chastity Belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been bonded for five years. But Knockturn Alley still beckoned Draco, its Darkness as irresistible, as irrepressible as the lust in his blood. His weakness compelled him to seek extraordinary measures to ensure his fidelity.





	1. I. CASTITAS

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lavillanueva's prompt "Chastity Device" for 2010 hp_kinkfest, reposted on AO3 in August, 2017. Many thanks to my co-betas, marguerite_26 and vaysh11, and also to romaine24 and jamie2109 for their invaluable input.

_Power corrupts.  
  
If this were true, then purity necessitates…_  
  
A prod, a small bite, light as a pinprick, sank into the shaft of his cock.  
  
_Castitas_. Chastity.  
  
Draco Malfoy clawed his fingers against the armrest. Under the smooth silk of his robe, the rough scales of serpents slithered against his skin, languid as the putrid scent hanging low, damp and heavy in the quarters. Sweat and spit had caked the hair caught between his fingers, hair that was once finer and more silver than his own. Draco yanked it with a twist of the wrist.  
  
“Enough.”  
  
A muffled groan replaced the slick noises of kissing and lapping. Soft lips tore away, forced to abandon their worship of Draco’s Dark Mark and before Draco could set eyes upon them, faded into a shadow under the dim torchlight. Saliva gleamed on Draco’s forearm and he wiped it dry on the threadbare damask of the armrest, wondering how many—and who—had done the same before him.  
  
On his knees in front of the chair, the whore’s touch dived downward on his body at the sight, to where his cloak tented above his full erection. “Please.” The veil fluttered, the plea breathless as hands massaged his need. The aged fabric of his Invisibility Cloak, more insubstantial than finest silk, traced the long, slender length that lay beneath, its translucence showcasing the red driven there by lust.  
  
By Draco.  
  
“More,” the whore begged again, as he leaned forward with his head bowed.  
  
Liquid fire, toxic and heavy like mercury, thickened the vein punctured by the bite. Its trail of lava turned Draco’s blood into vapor. His cock swelled as he felt hands caressing his ankles and his boots removed by a lightness akin to a breeze; the fang pierced deeper as a slick, hot tongue pressed on his toes and licked them, one after another.  
  
Another piercing, this time near the crown of Draco’s cock. Tendrils of cold seeped in, embracing, smothering the lust boiling in his vessels to asphyxiation. They further stoked his arousal, a reminder that Draco’s time was as limited as his restraint. He had to leave, before the thrill of seduction turned into a beast that would gnaw him alive, before the gratifying fullness between his thighs would suffocate against the guardians of his purity. He had to save himself before the clash of fire and ice would become a frozen hellfire from which he had no escape.  
  
He shot to his feet.  
  
Malfoys no longer belonged to Knockturn Alley. A brothel was no place for any respectable man, never mind one who had another for a bedmate.  
  
_Thou shalt not commit adultery_. Drinking in the sight, smell and taste of stray flesh even if Draco would never take him, this—  
  
—untouched-by-war, innocent and beautiful near-replica of himself clutching against his own legs, delicate hands like jade splayed on the dark silk of Draco’s robe.  
  
“I’ll do anything,” the whore whispered, the sheer Invisibility Cloak slipping off his shoulders to reveal skin anointed with a sheen of sweat—like a nimbus, otherworldly and far removed from the light Draco had grown accustomed to. The young man’s bare feet could thaw snow, as they had when they had led Draco to this place, his hair and his sparse clothing flowing and shining in the wind. Beauty like this should only belong to an angel. “Be the Saviour of our race. Of all men’s blood, only yours can blend with mine,” he repeated the words that had stopped Draco at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn Alley, as his arms wrapped tightly around Draco’s thighs. “So pure, so …”  
  
The voice faded as the whore latched himself onto Draco’s hipbone, biting, sucking, stealing attention away from the snare closing in around Draco’s cock. His flesh burned with fervour despite his clothed state: from the pliant lips that Obliviated the pain they would bring, from the heat and moisture from every breath that promised release, from the seductive licks and nips that nibbled away what remained of his thoughts.  
  
His virtues.  
  
Draco’s fingers once again found themselves clawing the tangled hair, his vision lost in the span of supple back muscles, the swell of buttocks peering from the cloak pooled on the wooden floor. But the mouth, the source of temptation, remained out of sight, not even when the kisses traced the edge of his pelvis towards his inner thighs.  
  
The young man tore away then and sniffed, catching the whiff of what was hidden under his robe. It smelled of power, Draco imagined—power far beyond the leftover magic from the doodles of a dead madman.  
  
The arms encircling Draco closed like a vice. The angelic face buried itself in the folds on Draco’s crotch and  _inhaled_  before kisses—ravenous to the point of sinister, like a vulture’s on its prey—rained upon his arousal. Moans too low to be human echoed between the walls like distant howls of wolves, as the lips traced the coils of constraint around Draco’s cock.  
  
This would be the moment to draw his wand, spell the man unconscious and make his exit.  
  
The hold on Draco’s legs loosened. The whore sank lower on his knees and swung his freed hand backward towards his own buttocks, raised high, ready and yearning for possession.  
  
_Leave, Draco. Leave._  
  
Slender fingers, coated with oil that had come from nowhere, curled and vanished between the arse cheeks. Knees spread further apart against the floor to reveal the tight, pink hole, the fountain of pleasure seemingly unknown to no man before Draco; to make way for his imminent corruption.  
  
The debauchery. The inevitable sin.  
  
Draco could go. Except…  
  
Except Draco was pinned on the spot—by nothing but his own feet, certainly, but he was still trapped.  
  
There was no way to escape. He could not venture back into Knockturn Alley before sunset. Apparition into and out of whorehouses was out of question; a plethora of curses would tear him apart. The Floo would only lead him deeper into the belly of this underworld. Travelling on foot meant he would risk getting noticed this time around.  
  
And he  _should_  not leave when this tramp before him could be yet another Dark Creature—like the many who had lured him into Knockturn before, who had schemed to steal Light away from him—or him away from the Light. He should neither fear nor cross it, should not reveal any suspicion of its identity but play along.  
  
He should not dismiss his strength to battle the Darkness around or within him; should not doubt his guardians of  _Castitas_ —the twelve serpents he had trusted with his flesh—would fend him against his sins.  
  
He should not…  
  
He should not…  
  
He should not go. He should stay.  
  
He had no choice but to stay. And should he fall for the temptations again, he would find forgiveness…  
  
The blush on the face that finally looked up at Draco was so intense that it seemed to have bled through the blue irises, painting the pupils a dark red.  
  
Deep as wells, like holes that could bore—  
  
“More,” the whore said again between hitched breaths, more demanding this time before a kiss landed right above the slit on Draco’s cock, the only place left unguarded, unrestrained by his serpents. A violent jerk of Draco’s hips instigated a shy smile and the man retreated then, still on his knees, until his back pressed against the side of a bare mattress spotted with potions and spoilt body fluids. He seemed to glide onto the bed with a mere fluid arch of his back and there he came to lie, his legs spread wide, his face hidden in the crook between one of his shoulders and a raised arm.  
  
A debauched angel—beautiful, demure and defenseless, except for the cock jutting out between the thighs, its flesh a raging scarlet and fierce with protruding veins.  
  
The two serpents around Draco’s waist set into motion, as the seven wound around his cock had already done so by infusing venom into his flesh. Draco tore open his robe and approached the willing body, heedless of the serpents about to invade him, their forked tongues leaving a wet trail down the tail of his spine and into the dark, damp cleft below, smelling, tasting for Draco’s own fountain of pleasure, the source of his power—  
  
He was his own master and he would prove it. A spell later, the whore’s cloak on the floor twisted and writhed to form a whip, its leather tougher and its silver more brilliant than the scales of the snakes. Its power would be seen in each welt it would make, in every line of blood it would paint on the flawless skin.  
  
_If power corrupts, then purity necessitates an absolute lack of power._

~.~

 

Welts from the whip soon marked the pale flesh, the old mattress beneath them daubed with fresh blots of scarlet. Pupils, their red hue intensifying with lust, had corroded the light blue irises around them.

Between the close walls, the most pathetic and filthiest of words reverberated, dregs of the once sweet and innocent voice, when the cock in Draco’s mouth pulsed and spilled.  
  
It wilted quickly against his tongue. Draco moved forward to straddle the chest, but not before dragging his teeth along the shaft. The body beneath him writhed and Draco straightened his back; he rode the flesh undulating with pain. He spread his thighs to lend more space to his own cock, engorged in its serpentine cage but remained dry at the slit. The whore’s eyes, half-lidded with pleasure or suffering or both, widened at the sight; quick breaths whistled like the wind stealing its way in through the door cracks.  
  
Draco spat out the cum—a greyish, caustic slime. He chided “cunt” through clenched teeth and slapped the sullied face before him. Blood gushed out from the nose, matching the hue of the eyes.  
  
Cupping the face with his hands, Draco admired his handiwork.  
  
All was within reach—the power to own, to rule over whatever he desired. The serpents holding him back were no match to who he would be, who he already was. They had fallen into a stupor, inebriated with the power swelling inside him with his every act to humiliate. The two on his waist had failed to push inside him; their bodies dangled like worms against his arse, their heads bobbing against the back of his thighs.  
  
Pathetic.  
  
Draco smirked. He pushed the whore back onto the bed, pressed his palm against the cum and blood and smeared the grey and red all over the face. His reward was a contorted look, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Clutching the necks of both snakes with his other fist, Draco reached back, coated the heads of the snakes with the filth on his hand. Then, using the same concoction, he breached and stretched himself.  
  
The serpents stirred, their sleep disturbed by the blood—the stink—of the weak. Basking in his own reflection, a halo in the red eyes, Draco leaned back, spread his knees wide and shoved the triangular heads against the rim of his hole. They slipped inside, the serpents remembering for a moment where they belonged. Draco rammed them against his prostrate.  
  
He groaned. Their torpid lengths, limp and covered with slime, buckled against the force. He pulled the bodies out and shoved them in deeper. Again. And again.  
  
At the sight of each thrust, the whore let out a whimper. His cock stirred beneath Draco, his broken voice croaking a renewed prayer—words that droned on like dying winds against twilight, words that Draco could not care to comprehend.  
  
But one more piece of torn flesh pulling gasps for air, gathered by a string of leather like spring flowers, and the snakes would shed from Draco’s body, useless parasites that they were. His cock would be unsheathed—  
  
—and this poor excuse of a whore lying limp before him would then be Draco’s to devour, to gouge deep in the core with his hard cock and fill.  
  
He Summoned his whip.  
  
A sharp hiss sliced into his ears. The man beneath Draco was morphing. His face cleared, the slime receding as if being blown away by a storm, the thick liquid rippling and spraying onto the mattress. Dark pupils pulled back to bore holes in the eyes and the elusive mouth took its shape to resemble … a void. A sigh from the darkness, and the room was an inferno; the heat pushed Draco sideways against the mattress and invaded the space between his abdomen and thighs, seemingly keen on cremating the serpents alive.  
  
Draco would have allowed it. The Power would be his—and his alone. With it, he could take all who had wronged him by force. He could reclaim what he had lost, could then seal every mouth that had spoken of his past. He could uphold the sanctity of his blood and smite those who dared to tarnish it.  
  
He could play Saviour, rather than surviving and  _submitting_  under the shadow of one.  
  
His leg, hooked against the neck of the whore, was an unspoken invitation.  _Burn. Set me free._  The void closed in, ready to incinerate the snare…  
  
Greed saved Draco from the abyss. Rather than waiting for Draco to sow life in him, the whore—a Wraith in disguise, an observation that Draco’s mind had yet to acknowledge—had spotted a prize. A token, perhaps, of once having owned if just a speck of magic from the most revered wizard under his spell. The indiscernible mouth pressed against Draco’s Dark Mark once more, more solid, more soothing as it proceeded towards his hand and erased every scar, every blemish beneath the kisses. It licked and fellated Draco’s digits one by one, until it reached the simple gold band on his ring finger—  
  
The suction strengthened. Draco cried as the force built like a hurricane. His flesh pulled and folded against the ring, which refused to yield—not even when Draco howled in pain and attempted to remove it by instinct.  
  
His flesh tore. White bone glowed, silver against the ring. The serpents woke from their trance.  
  
At that moment, Draco Malfoy recovered his Light.

~.~

 

The flat was dark when Draco stumbled into the fireplace. He waved his wand. A few lamps shattered but one that managed to light up. The clasps on his robe remained mostly unfastened; still, he opted for splitting the garment into two and tearing it off. The tremor in his hands was beyond control.

  
The closest bed was in the guest room, unmade and strewn with yet to be folded laundry. Draco shoved the jeans and shirts onto the floor and collapsed upon it, his legs flying apart until his knees slammed against his chest. The stink on his skin was a memory of the filth from Knockturn, its smears of red a reminder of its brutality. Fresh blood was running down his fingers that were digging and clawing into his thighs and buttocks, but the pain could do little to alleviate the assault from within.  
  
He would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for release.  
  
Even the scent of the bed’s frequent occupant did nothing to pacify the serpents. The pair of long bodies slithered inside Draco, the scales grazing his inner walls smooth enough to dive deep but rough enough for their every movement to be felt. His muscles clenched. The creatures ventured in further. The exposed tails of the snakes, each flanking one side of Draco’s waist, had straightened and stretched to the limit of their lengths. Intertwined to form a braid below his navel when inert, only the tips of their tails remained in contact as the serpents’ heads burrowed deep into Draco’s arse. They yanked apart yet another pair of silver snakes knotted in place near their junction but oriented themselves downward, their heads resting in the curls on Draco’s pubic hair. Their almost inconspicuous, forked tongues anchored them in place with their tight coil around Draco’s balls.  
  
“Stop! Please!” Draco shouted as the serpents instigated another assault on his prostate. His hips thrust on its own volition, the white sheet beneath him a rumpled, sweat-soaked ball in his fists. Silence answered, followed by yet another attack as the serpents inside him writhed, their heads stretching to trace the noise. Liquid copper smeared his lips as Draco turned and twisted to seek relief, biting back his pleas to be allowed to come. His every cell would soon burst under the unyielding pressure inside him, his cock would soon be strangled by the seven smaller serpents looped around his swollen shaft, blood-filled from the venom they had injected into the tissue.  
  
The twelve living guardians of his  _Castitas_  had acquired a fine taste for power. They craved it and sought after it, as had their breeder, Abraxas Malfoy. Back in the brothel, the whore had bestowed power upon Draco by worshipping the Dark Mark; the smaller serpents had fallen for the temptation first, sinking their fangs inside Draco. The larger ones had laid claim to him later, in his hole and around his balls.  
  
They would remain as faithful guardians until a greater power presented itself, until it lured them away with its flesh. Its blood.  
  
A plain cotton brief lay beside Draco. Draco stuffed it into his mouth.  
  
Penance. He had once again succumbed to the ultimate aphrodisiac, proven itself time and time again irresistible for a Malfoy.

~.~

 

Draco’s note had been simple.  _I’ve sinned,_  it had confessed in a barely legible scrawl.  
  
Less than fifteen minutes later, a familiar crack of Apparition could be heard in the living room.  
  
When Harry appeared outside the guest room, snow still clinging onto his Auror uniform, the thick wool scarf and boots, he already had the white porcelain basin and candles in his hands.  
  
He had expected nothing less from Draco.  
  
Nothing more.  
  
The spectacles came off as Harry crossed the threshold. That had been Draco’s request—not so that Harry would not see clearly the wretched state of his husband, but so that Draco would not risk catching a glimpse of himself in their reflection.  
  
With his legs spread wide and his hips pumping; with his fingers grabbing, yanking the writhing serpents on his cock, trying to pull them off or seek purchase of his own flesh underneath; with his face smeared with tears, drool leaking from his stuffed mouth and lips quivering in an undecipherable chant, “I’m sorry. Please, Harry. Please let me come.”  
  
The candles lit and arranged themselves on the bedside table as Harry placed the basin on the bed. The leather on his glove was frigid as he wiped away Draco’s tears and pulled the pants out of Draco’s mouth.  
  
Draco said nothing. There was nothing left for him to say. For them to say.  
  
Harry barely winced as a cut appeared along his jawline under the tip of his wand. He lifted his hand to press against the wound, the leather soaking up and darkening with the blood, as he crawled on the bed and knelt in the V between Draco’s thighs.  
  
From his lips, the gentle hisses of Parseltongue voiced his request. He reached out, and with his fingertips drew a circle around the crown of Draco’s cock.  
  
The smell of blood—within it, Harry’s life, his magic—roused the creatures into a frenzy. The seven serpents anchored to his cock withdrew their fangs. The sting at the lesions they left behind along Draco’s shaft were alight with emptiness. They raised their heads and stretched in what appeared to be a dance as their silvery bodies spiralled down the shaft.  
  
The stimulation was too much to bear. Draco thrashed about, his cries changing into hoarse groans as his voice gave way.  
  
Harry rose to his knees and leaned forward to hold Draco down, his robe a lush red pool between their bodies. His hand remained still against Draco’s cock; one after the other, the serpents slithered onto his fingers, lured by the blood smeared upon the leather, its power feeding their addiction.  
  
Harry’s Parseltongue turned even softer, more seductive.  _I promise them the same things_ , he had once told Draco—promises of what he had not said.  _And—dunno why—they always believe me_.  
  
A silent  _Aguamenti_  had filled the porcelain basin before him with water. Scarlet bloomed like desert flowers when Harry dipped his soiled hand in it. The snakes swam away to pursue the red swirls diffusing before their eyes.  
  
His vision trained upon the serpents, Harry’s hands brushed against the rest of the  _Castitas_ , inspecting its state by touch. With his fingertips he kneaded the barely contacting tails of the two serpents on Draco’s abdomen.  
  
“They’ve gone really deep inside you.” Remnants of Parseltongue remained in Harry’s voice, the threat and want in their undertone drawing out every end syllable. He turned his head abruptly, his line of vision swept past Draco and struck the candles on the bedside table, the golden flames soothing men and beasts alike with their scent of asphodal and valerian leaves.  
  
He would look away as long as he could, to avoid seeing Draco’s exposed cock, erect and now starting to leak with its bonds removed, the pain alleviated but the lust renewed.  
  
“Should I take them out first—” his hands trailed the snake’s lengths to cup Draco’s arse “—or the venom?” He tilted his chin a breath’s distance towards Draco as he waited for an answer.  
  
Only to Draco the answer would matter.  
  
For Harry, he would either have Draco’s cock wilt to limp flesh between his lips as he sucked away the poison from what should have pleasured him alone. Or he would bask momentarily in the illusion that his bond mate was hard for him—when in effect the erection was fuelled by the serpents’ attack on Draco’s prostate—then retreat so Draco could satisfy himself with his own touch.  
  
The first choice was an insult; the second, a humiliation.  
  
On his knees between Draco’s legs once more, Harry had his gloved fingers wrapped around the cock before him when Draco finally found the words amongst the moans escaping him, noises that were like salt in Harry’s wounds. “Snakes first.”  
  
Harry’s eyes met Draco’s the first time after he had entered the room. The stark crimson of the Head Auror uniform should have hardened the heart of every man who had the honour to don it. But Harry…  
  
Draco pulled his legs as far as he could, folding himself in half to offer Harry a clear view of where the serpents had found their way into him.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Silence. The air in the room grew heavier, its scent of metals stronger than before. Draco could not see—did Harry draw more blood from the cut or did he inflict another wound on his face? The leathered hands on Draco’s arse were there to heal, as they caressed him to comfort. The fingers would soon find their way to his hole, where they would linger until the serpents catch a whiff of the blood and follow it into the light—  
  
But the hands travelled higher up his body instead, to midway along Draco’s thighs where they stopped to hold Draco still.  
  
His vision limited to the ceiling, Draco traced the faint shadow of himself joined to Harry, who was bending over—  
  
Draco froze.  _No!_  He shook his head as his mind shouted. Yet his hips, fuelled by desires, betrayed him, lifting to meet the warm, hastened breaths descending like fluttering wings from above. He knew what Harry would try to do. The serpents had gone too deep inside him; Harry’s mouth could bring more blood into their proximity by…  
  
But Harry did not deserve this—bear the fruits of sins that were not his own.  
  
Draco choked when Harry’s tongue dipped into the crease between his buttocks, traced its path to the opening where it hesitated for an instant, before pressing in for a broad, firm swipe. Draco’s mind screamed  _Don’t_  over and over when Harry’s lips landed on his rim, when they took in the filth and acerbity of the Wraith on Draco’s skin. The kisses persisted as the serpents departed, as they slid against the tongue that had stretched Draco’s hole wide and ventured in itself, Harry’s blood offered on its tip. The kisses carried on, forceful and passionate, until the serpents had retreated to become no more than a silver plait on Draco’s waist.  
  
The springs in the mattress wailed as Harry sat up on the heels of his boots. He stared past Draco and wiped his mouth, his leather glove soaking in his blood once more. Moisture had welled up in his eyes and his face was pale as parchment, but he said nothing and instead shoved Draco against the mattress once more, pushed his legs apart and lowered his clad body upon Draco.  
  
Acquiescence was all that Draco could offer—Harry had willed himself to finish what needed to be done as quickly as possible. There was nothing else Harry wanted that Draco could give; not when they were on the same bed, when Harry massaged and fellated his cock; not when his rapid pulse thundered against Draco’s skin, when his full crotch rubbed against the mattress, giving away of the urgency of Harry’s own need.  
  
One by one, Harry located the fang wounds with the sensitive nerves of his tongue. One by one, he sucked out the venom and sealed the opening close with a kiss.  
  
And every time Harry spat out the poison, every time his lips wrapped around Draco’s cock and pulled, he cast away a fragment of Draco’s sin—and with it, the source of his power. It deserted him, despite Harry’s every wish to hold on to it, his hand frantically fisting Draco’s softening cock, his tongue desperately reaching for the crown retreating under then foreskin.  
  
There were certain deaths that even a Saviour could not save. And all that remained with Harry in the end was a weak—impotent—Draco Malfoy.

~.~

 

The serpents, all twelve of them, had fallen into a slumber, sated by Harry’s blood in the water. Once the two serpents had exited Draco, the remaining three—the two whose tongues formed a cock ring around his balls and the one that had served to attach this ring to the back of the belt—took little effort to remove. Harry’s hands had returned to serve Draco, rubbing healing potions on his abused scrotum, lathering soothing balm on his tender flesh. The gloves had remained, their once beautiful dragonhide tarnished by a multitude of stains. The rough seams caught between Harry’s and Draco’s skin now and then, too soft to hurt, too hard to ignore.  
  
Even harder for Draco to ignore was Harry’s face, half-concealed by the dark fringes and still flush with arousal. His red robe was gathered at the front, hiding, no doubt, a bulge underneath the trousers.  
  
The smaller snakes nestled in the ring drawn by the longest ones among them. Harry made no more than a ripple in the water when he stood and Levitated the basin onto the bedside table, seemingly worried about disturbing their sleep.  
  
One of the candles had gone out. Harry picked up another and attempted to restore light on its wick.  
  
“It’s gone,” Draco said, leaning against the headboard and nursing the glass of water Harry had given him.  
  
The charred wick took its last breath of life—a glowing ember at its tip—before it twisted and fell, leaving a void in the wax. With a tight grasp, Harry snapped off the top third of the candle. A flame soon glowed on the fresh white thread.  
  
Draco reached out and cupped the bulge between Harry’s thighs. “This isn’t.” He kneaded the swell beneath with his fingers. He could bring Harry off with his hands and his lips, if Harry would let him.  
  
He refused to think of it as payment.  
  
“It will. Soon,” Harry replied and stepped sideways; only the folds of his robe remained in Draco’s hand. Chewing his lower lip, he gazed at Draco. “What was it?”  
  
_What_ , not  _who_. The truth was Draco’s only defence. “It was a Wraith.”  
  
“A Wraith,” Harry repeated, turning to stare at the serpents again. “A Wraith.” He nodded, seemingly dazed with contemplation before breaking into chuckles that sounded worse than sobs. “You mean those Dementors’ cousins who suck not souls but life? They make people feel good, don’t they, let victims live their fantasies before preying on them…” He trailed off, his tone more fitting for reading dictionaries aloud or reciting the ingredients for a potion—it was as flat, as distant as that.  
  
Rage, like hope, was prone to expire.  
  
“I—“ Draco began.  
  
Harry held-up his hand and stopped him.  
  
True, Harry had no need to listen any more. The story never changed. A Dark creature would find Draco, drawn by his fair appearance and purity of blood, perhaps, or by the mistakes in his past, the name of his spouse, any combinations of these. At the intersection between day and night, between Diagon and Knockturn Alley, it would lure him with a Glamour showing him a weakness, readily employed by a Malfoy’s perpetual thirst for power. This Glamour had been many things: from a foolhardy challenger, eager to prove himself worthier of survival and love in the post war world, to a lost sheep, innocent and fearful, from whom Draco was the chosen Saviour. Once Draco had made his detour into the Dark alley, the creature would seduce him and test the magic of the chastity belt—which Draco had requested Harry to put on him—to its very limit.  
  
A limit Draco’s desires would one day surpass. If the coma of the serpents had fallen into just hours before were any clue, that day was not far away.  
  
No restraints were indissoluble unless they came from within.  
  
Harry sighed. His face softened, his lips curved with a touch of smile that spelled finality—a silent farewell to something broken beyond repair, maybe, or something he must let go. “I know who I’m bonded with.”  
  
Harry had said too many of these cryptic messages lately.  
  
Draco had no interest in deciphering them. If he only had the courage—not to inquire, but to accept the answers…  
  
Fireworks were not meant to last. Harry dug out his spectacles from his pocket, before leaning down to press a chaste kiss on Draco’s forehead.  
  
“Neville’s ill. I reckon I should cover the stakeout for him.” He turned, ready to leave, but his feet seemed to have other ideas. He studied Draco for another moment through his glasses; his soiled gloves finally came off then, and Harry balled them in one hand while his other ruffled Draco’s hair—the same way he had after they had shared their first release together, Draco still looking impeccable save for the rumpled fabric caught between their bodies, a sticky mess of silk and cum and spent erections.  
  
A hint of the cold outside lingered on Harry’s fingertips. “Go to bed. Don’t wait up.”

~.~

 

Sleep was elusive that night. Saturday came and went amidst strange dreams—Draco was wrestling the Wraith and Harry, in a cemetery infested with snakes. When he emerged from the fight, triumphant but alone, the fireplace of his living room greeted him.  
  
He woke with a start and a hardness between his legs; the latter he quelled in the shower. He pumped his cock until he came, kept on until the skin on his shaft and balls was raw and red. As he leaned back against the tiles, beads of water licking away his exhaustion as a curve on his groin signaled the beginning of yet another arousal, he knew one thing was for certain.  
  
Harry had not returned home.

~.~

 

Panic set in just before noon on Sunday, when Draco received an owl from Longbottom.  
  
The stake out had ended twenty-four hours ago.  
  
_Payback._  That was the first word that flashed through Draco’s mind. Harry had orchestrated a house arrest in retribution to his infidelity. Draco had never ventured beyond his flat without his safeguard, not since the night before their bonding ceremony when Harry had first coaxed the serpents to settle upon his flesh.  
  
It was too easy for him to stray.  
  
Wizards of dubious backgrounds frequented his Apothecary at the other end of Diagon Alley. One  _Confundus_  or  _Imperio_  from them, one bait—

 

> _He wasn’t honest with Harry in the beginning._
> 
> _“You own this,” Draco said, dropping his robe beside the specimens chest in which the serpents lay. “You own me.”_
> 
> _Harry frowned and stared, trying to see through Draco’s motivations. Draco basked in the intensity of the gaze, rapt in nothing and no one but himself._
> 
> _After a few glances at the silver case and the serpents within, Petrified and cast in blooded amber, the touch of a smile lit Harry’s face, which then split into a grin. “Of course I own you, Malfoy.”_
> 
> _“Well, my Light and Saviour—“ Draco slid an arm around Harry’s bare torso, his other hand snaking towards the erections caught between them. Harry groaned and his hand flew to bat Draco’s away, only to take its place, yank down the zip of his jeans and fist them both with fast, sure strokes._
> 
> _“—I may fool around with some future Dark Lords,” Draco continued, faking his most arrogant drawl between laughs and gasps of pleasure. “You want me to sully your virgin arse after that?”_
> 
> _He would have dropped the subject had Harry not tensed and blushed. Such innocence, so little self-control. During their months of courtship, they had snogged and frotted, offered each another blowjobs and handjobs but had yet to go any further; Harry had already displayed every trait of a formidable lover—open, fierce and insatiable behind the easy façade, a sensual creature under the casual shirt and jeans._
> 
> _Draco had attributed Harry’s eagerness to prior experience. He had not thought of them as signs of anticipation._
> 
> _The chastity belt became non-negotiable. It took several days for Harry to realize that Draco’s fears of temptations were real, that Knockturn Alley—its Darkness and the power that lay within—still recognized Malfoy’s blood and called Draco’s name. He learned that Draco’s heart swelled and his pulses ran when he passed by the alley every sunset, that his senses heightened and caught fire from the gleam of eyes watching him in the dark—eyes whose owner Draco could never see, but their heat never ceased to find its way into him and pooled inside his belly._
> 
> _Harry obliged to Draco’s request afterwards—confident, perhaps, that Draco’s neurosis would subside with time. “But I trust you”, said for the last time that evening, a small serpent already dangling from his finger, moments before he had switched to Parseltongue._

  
  
No, Draco’s memory was playing tricks on him.  
  
Harry had not mentioned trust. He had said something else.  
  
He had said:  _I know who I’ll be bonding with._  
  
Except he had not known Draco at all.  
  
Harry had not known that Draco would cease to desire the new master of his  _Castitas_  from that day on. In the years that had followed, the only time Draco had been aroused enough to penetrate Harry had required Harry to be little more than a breathing corpse, stripped of power and humanity: his wand and clothes Banished, Harry had lain immobilized on their bed, his arms bound to his back with  _Incarcerous_  and his mouth gagged by a bridle. Draco had not come afterwards; his cock had wilted at the sight of Harry’s groin—of the crown still sheathed entirely by its foreskin, of the shaft stiffened only by the Petrificus Totalus it’d been cursed with.  
  
Harry had not known that Draco would never escape Knockturn Alley, that not only would Draco frequent there—the brothels and potion dens along the side streets, the tombless graveyards where Dark Creatures fed and thrived—he would also take Knockturn home with him. The saccharine scent of poisons lingered on their bed, ashes of death and Dark magic stained the sheets. Rather than clearing them, which required magic so strong that only he could provide, Harry had exiled himself to the guest room. Their intimate moments were reduced to the times when Harry would come by to check on a recovering Draco, when he’d thought Draco had fallen asleep, exhausted by yet another assault from the serpents. He would watch Draco and sometimes, he would hold Draco’s hands in his own and pray, asking for the strength to honor Draco’s past and face his flaws, to forgive, to hope, to keep faith, to love.  
  
Every memory of Draco’s sins therefore remained—in their house, in their hearts; they accumulated, just like the cuts Harry had made along his jaw to feed the serpents—like his lightning scar, Harry had said, the scabs were proofs of small victories against evil.  
  
These same proofs had disfigured Harry more that the scarlet bolt on his forehead.  
  
Would Harry have given Draco his all, if he had known that five years later, with him missing for more than a day after an Auror mission, Draco would go to check on the serpents first before running outside—to the Ministry, maybe, or the Burrow, or Grimmauld Place—to search for Harry?  
  
The candles had expired, drowned in their own frozen tears. The snakes continued to sleep in peace, still sated in Harry’s blood.  
  
A corner of an envelope caught Draco’s eye. He pulled it out from below the basin.  
  
Who had put it there? A house-elf friend of Harry’s, perhaps, while Draco had slept the day before?  
  
The envelope flapped and a crisp chime sounded. A silver band, a circular braid of serpents much like the ones in the basin, had rolled out of the opening and fallen against the table.  
  
Draco picked it up and closed his fingers around it. The metal was cold like winter.  
  
The letter inside was little more than a torn bit of parchment, written in Harry’s wild script.

 

> Draco,
> 
> You once told me to own the snakes was to own you. I don’t want to own anyone, much less anything that’s eating us away. If this band is what it means and all it means to you, please pass it on to somebody else.
> 
> I can’t do this anymore.
> 
> Harry

  
  
Bastard. The letter shook in Draco’s hands. He wanted to tear it into a million pieces, burn it down to ashes in a Fiendfyre. It crumpled in his clenched fist, smearing blue on his fingers—  
  
The ink on the letter was black. Blue was the shade of the Muggle ballpoints Harry preferred. Draco smoothed the paper and found an extra line at the back, almost illegible, as though the writer had penned it as a last thought.

  

> You don’t own me. You have me because I’ve given myself to you.

 

~.~

 

Remains of the mirrors and picture frames Draco had destroyed in the past hour were sprinkled throughout the flat. Like snow—the shards were as white, as powdery. As pure and fragile.  
  
They lay broken not because Harry had walked out on him, not because images of the Wraith and other Dark Creatures, all wanton and vulnerable, had taken advantage of his unguarded state, had raided his mind and flooded his cock with blood.  
  
He had broken all that he could break in the house because no matter how hard he had tried, his gold band refused to separate from his ring finger.

 


	2. II. TEMPERANTIA

Draco watched as his black leather boot traversed the shimmering wards of his flat, then his shin and his thigh that were wrapped in a stretch of indigo. The denim clung far too tightly to his skin compared to the air and Warming Charm he'd been accustomed to. As it rubbed against itself, its scratching reminded Draco of sanding wood.  
  
_Vanishing Cabinets._  
  
As he followed the winding path that led into Diagon Alley, Draco battled against his instinct to walk with his legs apart. The friction between his thighs was unbearable. He dug his hands into the side pockets, seeking comfort in the copper rivets nailed against the pockets’ corners.  
  
Like an armour, Draco told himself again, and as much a torture to wear—  
  
—with the strip of steel—a zip, if his memory served correctly—pressed against his cock, the silver teeth straining as they locked down to hold the fabric together. The fly shield above the metal narrowed to a rigid seam that invaded the valley between his balls, then collided with others that had raced along his inner thighs and trailed the bisecting line between his arse. The copper-hued threads sewn upon them made sure no eyes could stray, no minds could wander from the temptations hid away below. The knob where the seams met was right below where Draco was the most delicate and sensitive; he could feel it pressing against his perineum whenever he sat, whenever he lifted his leg a breath’s distance more than a usual step would need.  
  
Only Muggles could embrace a garment so obscene. Even the Knockturn vermins would refuse to touch such a filthy design.  
  
The denim—tough and unyielding compared to the silk Draco was accustomed to—left little of what the rest of the garment was concealing to imagination, its every form and curve, its beauty and flaws. Draco had long, lean legs—the jeans had needed tailoring spells to fit; his calves had a mild curve outward; his hipbones broke the smooth line that ran from his torso to his thighs, his waist had a strong dip, marked by an imprint of his spine at the back.  
  
And just above where his left thigh began, the stretched ripples of the fabric gave away the length, the girth of his cock.  
  
People on the street were watching. The morning rush neither prevented them from slowing their pace nor their stares, reminiscent of those Draco had endured in the months after the war. He held his head high and strode with wide, sure steps. The jeans assaulted his senses further. Blood was pooling below his abdomen, hot and thick like quicksilver.  
  
All eyes remained upon him.  
  
Harry had performed his Auror duties as usual,  _The Prophet_  had yet to catch wind of what would be, no doubt, a headline-worthy piece of gossip on their troubled marriage. It was also hardly news when the Apothecary closed for a week. Draco travelled often to collect exotic fossils and herbs.  
  
Could his Muggle attire be sufficient to pique this curiosity?  
  
What about a Malfoy in Muggle attire?  
  
Draco could not ignore the eyes—not when they drank in the sight of him like this, not when they crept upward along his legs and lingered on his groin, as if Legilimency could penetrate denim and read his thoughts through his heavily guarded flesh. He could not ignore the attention and his power to mesmerize, just as he could never ignore those eyes watching him from the mouth of Knockturn Alley, with darkness sinking in the street while Diagon Alley remained bathed in the setting sun—eyes that caught the light in his hair and his face, eyes that met his own before trailing downward, as if they had seen the serpents reining him in. Eyes that questioned things for which Draco had no answers:  
  
_Why yearn for control when power is the man who has you, who holds the world in his hands?_  
  
Why hold yourself back when all can be yours to take, when all is what you have lost?  
  
Diagon Alley seemed to extend into infinity. By the time Draco cast  _Alohomora_  on the steps at the other end of the street, sweat drenched his forehead and glued the white Oxford shirt on his back. The mess under his jeans would have shown through the fabric if not for its rich indigo hue. With the last remnant of his strength, he closed the door and fell against it.  
  
It was then he dared to reach down, one hand just to offer support as the other pulled down the zip notch by notch. He barely had the strength and will power to pull it down all the way—the teeth kept getting stuck in his trembling hand—and he slipped his hand into the opening, between his flesh and the patch of denim that had turned heavier and darker than the rest of the jeans.  
  
Liquid heat exploded in the tight space, over Draco’s fingers and the length of his erection. Spurts of white dotted his flesh and Draco rubbed them along his shaft, pumping his cock until the last drop of cum glistened on the floor beside where he had collapsed.  
  
He lay there, panting. He had to open the shop soon but felt far too boneless, far too sated to reach or Summon for his wand.  
  
A memory slipped into the haze of his mind …  
  
His arm swung back, Draco patted the back pocket of his jeans and found the packet of Muggle tissue. He took out all the pieces, crumpled them into a white bouquet and brushed it against his hip, just above the loosened waistband of his jeans. The material felt softer, more  _magical_  than Draco had ever imagined. A smile on his lips and a tear in his eyes, he wrapped the tissue against his cock and wiped himself clean.

~.~

 

Potions, indeed, had the delicate power to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. Work proved to be sufficient distraction and Draco had, between brewing and negotiations, made a month’s worth of trips back and forth between his flat and his shop. He had learned to maintain his natural gait at all times in his jeans, had got used to the way they sealed his groin and grazed his skin.  
  
He had grown accustomed to their smell, the hints of spilled coffee, fish and chips, of cigarettes and smog that no cleaning spells could ever remove. They belonged to a different world.  
  
Every morning, Draco would lift the jeans to its nose and inhale, taking in the smell of  _him_. He would do so until splotches of white soiled his nude reflection on the mirror, until they ran down the smooth surface like tears of pearl.  
  
Sated, Draco would gather his strength and set foot upon Diagon Alley, where the eyes continued to watch him. Taunt and tease him.  
  
At first he had wondered whether he was obsessed with them, dreaming up their presence, or whether they were obsessed with him, unable or unwilling to cast their sight on to anything else. His epiphany came when the eyes found their way into his shop, on faces he had yet to recognise. The ravenous stares told Draco all he needed to know. He was transformed into an object of desire in the outfit of another man, who just happened to be the most revered wizard ever lived, the demi-God who had walked amongst them.  
  
Was there a spell in the pockets of those jeans? A curse at the taper of the fly? Did it leave a mark on Draco, a smell of power, perhaps, distinct from that of the serpents, drawing in its own predators?  
  
No matter. The denim tautened against his flesh and the steel teeth locked against his cock were reminder and proof of whom Draco belonged to.  
  
Somewhere in the Manor, he was certain, a Malfoy lexicon was gathering dust and had this printed under  _to love_ :  _synonym: to own, to possess._  
  
_Of course I own you, Malfoy._  
  
Lead not into temptations but deliver from evil. The old Muggle jeans had renewed Draco’s hopes after his gold band and  _Castitas_  had failed, even if they carried no powerful magic to bind him to a promise or capacity to punish him should he break a vow. This guard was a part of Draco only because he had chosen it to be; it was effective only because it had touched the skin and shared the body heat of its owner—and Draco—so often.  
  
The eyes followed Draco as he entered through the wards of No.1, Diagon. There was one redeeming quality about them—they had drowned out the few that could have preyed on him, any evening, at the junction between Knockturn and Diagon Alley.

~.~

 

Forty days after Draco’s emancipation, Harry stood face to face with him in the Apothecary.  
  
Leaning against the counter, Harry’s folded arms were lost in the rich red folds of his Auror robe. “What are you up to, Malfoy?” he asked.  
  
On the wall behind him, the clock chimed. Six o’clock. Six years ago, Harry Potter had come into the shop with the same question, except his tone had been steeped with spite, his stare sharp with the daggers flashing within.  
  
“What do you want?” Draco replied, his drawl kept to a minimum. Around them, the eyes that had been fixated on him less than five minutes ago had all abandoned him for Harry.  
  
Sycophants.  
  
“Something I’ve lost.” Harry’s gaze swept through the farthest corner of Draco’s mind, touched the deepest alcove of his soul. The simplicity of his words, the gentleness of his voice, threatened to hypnotise Draco’s rage—  
  
“Talk to the Aurors.”  
  
“Tossers, those people are. I just left their office.” He smiled and straightened, his arms unfolding momentarily before refolding and resting against the counter again, as if he had forgotten how to comfortably place them.  
  
Such as, Draco’s mind supplemented the vision, with his hands on his waist, his elbow bent and pulled backwards at a sharp angle. Draco had used to find him like that on Sunday mornings, nude above his waist and his thumbs toying with the belt hoop of his favorite jeans, deciding what to thaw for dinner in front of the icebox.  
  
“The shop’s closing at six,” Harry spoke again while Draco pulled his thumbs out from the belt hoops from the same jeans. Since when had he picked up that habit? “I want to take you to dinner.”  
  
“The Apothecary’s open late tonight.”  
  
Harry studied Draco for a moment and tilted his head towards the customers. “The shop’s about to close.” His announcement was warm but firm. “Place your prescriptions on the counter and if there’s anything to ring up—”  
  
The door locked at Harry’s command when Draco’s fist flew towards his face.  
  
Auror training had raised Harry’s combat skill far beyond Draco’s. “Don’t,” he whispered, catching Draco’s wrist.  
  
Draco’s free hand had retrieved his wand when he heard “take off your ring”.  
  
The wand fell on the floor with a clatter. Harry’s face, so impassive before him, bore an eerie resemblance to the one that had peered at him back in Madam Malkins, a blank parchment yet to be soiled by hatred and ignited with love. The room before his eyes wavered until all he could see was his wrist in Harry’s hand; the Dark Mark, the forked tongue of the serpent against the vow  _I will not tell lies_.  
  
He yanked the gold band it loose from his finger and threw it across the room. Its chrono-magic collided against the wall clock’s, sending the minute arm into a frantic spin.  
  
“Out!” Draco cried, but no sound came from his lips. The bastard stayed put. He hurtled himself across the counter on hands and feet—those damned jeans had permitted that— and Summoned his wand.  
  
The next moment his wand tip pressed against the throat of Harry Potter.  
  
“Did you hear me…” He was gasping and he hated himself for it. “Get. Out.”  
  
“The ring,” Harry said finally. “You took it off yourself.” He reached out—not to defend himself against the wand, but to wrap his fingers against Draco’s free hand.  
  
Draco’s wand fell against his side.  
  
Harry took the chance to draw closer. “Only we can take off the rings—they’re forged that way. Your idea, remember?”  
  
True. The gold and silver bands carried the ancient spell at Draco’s insistence. Too many enemies of the Light and the Dark lurked in the shadows, dreaming of a chance to possess them and temper with their fate. The spell permitted the rings to recognise their owners by temperament rather than by magical signatures, which were fickle proofs of identity, prone to the effects of age and environment.  
  
_They’re just … metal,_  Harry had argued,  _unless we make them to be more than that._  
  
But to Draco, they were so much more than that. The rings were tokens of the bond between them. They carried promises—mortal, perhaps, but more tangible, more within reach than answers to any prayer. They were declarations to the world that Harry and Draco belonged to one another.  
  
That they  _possessed_  one another; that this bond between them would always be theirs to uphold, theirs to destroy.  
  
“I could tell the Wraith had gone for your ring.” Harry sighed, his bare ring finger found Draco’s and curled against it. “Saw your bone around it but it had gone nowhere; you, an apothecary owner, made an apprentice’s mistake: you left a magical item in a deep skin wound. I’d like to think it’s because—“ he gave their intertwined fingers a firm squeeze, “—but I saw the snakes had gone so deep…“ he shook his head, his lips curled into a sad smile. “I’d known you couldn’t remove the ring. It didn’t know who you were anymore.”  
  
His gaze met Draco’s. “Then I looked at you and I wondered if I still recognised you, or if I, too, had already lost you to  _Castitas_. Chastity.” he paused, his eyes intent on Draco’s every reaction when he added softly, “Purity…defined by your grandfather. I have no proof, Draco, but looking back, a long line of Dark Creatures, even those who’d never mingled with wizards, have shown themselves to you. They fell on their knees. They let you do… things to them. They didn’t seduce you, Draco. Your snakes seduced them. You’re the bait because you’d relied on and given more and more of yourself away to  _Castitas_.”  
  
That had been Harry’s judgment then—by tempting the Dark, Draco bore the full burden of his sins. His blood went cold—his eternally sinister blood, rushing in his ears as it would in its lifelong pursue of power. No wonder Harry had opted to walk out of Draco’s life and discarded his ring without a warning, without an offer of yet another chance of redemption.  
  
One that Draco had not deserved.  
  
But he was Harry Potter and Draco, a Malfoy. The Saviour and the damned. The saint and the sinner. Harry was not only supposed to bring judgment against Draco, he was also meant to chastise him, purge him of his sins.  
  
Call it their destiny. Their curse.  
  
Heedless of its lips thinned to a line, Harry feathered a tentative kiss against Draco’s mouth. Its cool response did nothing to faze Harry. Instead, he took a small step closer, as if determined to thaw the chill with his body heat. “ _I’ve sinned_ , you say. I don’t care if you do. I only wish for those sins to be yours. I’m human too, Draco. I fight my own battles, my own temptations. Like when I want… .” Harry closed his eyes and inhaled, the quiver in his soft voice rippling across his calm surface. “When I took the snakes off, I always dreamed of you sinning for me. With me. That you’d pulled me into the fire with you for once—”  
  
Draco Summoned his wand, his firsts spell ripping the sleeve of Harry’s robe. Harry withdrew his hand by instinct. Draco sliced his wand through the air; gash upon gash tore apart the scarlet robe as he advanced. Harry was quick to retreat; he pulled out his holly wand, neutralising Draco’s hexes or steering unbreakable jars from the shelves to the air to act as moving shields. Sparks flew in the air as their spells stroke the glass.  
  
“So it is all fun and games for you, isn’t it?” Draco shouted through the peal of chimes and echoes inside the shop. “Draco Malfoy, your private tour guide in hell.” A jar transformed to a sandbag and Draco slit its burlap apart; sand rained between him and Harry before turning back into the baroda pearls they had been, their sheen usurped by cracks and holes.  
  
The other jars returned to their positions on the shelf. Parchment and empty phials on the counter took their place in the air as Harry persisted in giving Draco ground. He had not suffered so much as a scratch from Draco’s offensive, despite limiting his tactic to dodging the attack while picking the most inexpensive items in the room to do so.  
  
There was no more cadence to Draco’s spell work. His wand drew wild circles in the closing distance between Harry’s face and his own. The space filled with dancing pieces of broken shards and paper, until the noises wound down to nothing but his own gasps for air. Nothing remained whole except for those containers of potion supplies Harry had refused to destroy. Torn bits of paper covered the floor like autumn leaves; strips of leather flourished from the leather chairs that had used to line up beside the desk. Fate had proven itself a bitch to the mortar and pestle—  
  
There, standing in front of Draco was the most powerful man of the Wizarding World backed to the corner of the shop, half of his Head Auror robe in tatters while the other half lay strewn all over the shop. His right shoulder and arm were bare. Under the narrow band of scarlet that had remained around his waist, long, slanted incisions had removed a good portion of the cloth.  
  
Before Draco’s eyes, the remaining front panel of his robe tore and fell backwards, a long train trailing behind his leg.  
  
There was nothing under the robe, per custom of the wizards of old—per custom of the Malfoys before Draco had begun to dress himself in jeans. There was not a shred of slacks or cotton brief—those atrocities that Harry had always worn below his Auror uniform. Instead, a mere thatch of hair covered his skin, the dense, jet-black triangle tapering to a cock that was gorgeous to behold. It was full and erect, with its gentle curve upward, its blood vessels protruding just enough for their pulses to be seen; a string of pre-cum swung from the slit, just about to break away from the crown.  
  
Harry would have looked like the ancient war god, if not for his cheeks flaming redas his robe, his lips parted and mumbling something Draco couldn’t hear. Lust had darkened the green eyes, reciprocating Draco’s stare—  
  
—on the apex between Draco’s jean-cladded thighs; on the too-tight denim, the zip threatening to show below the stretched fly; on the ripples radiating from Draco’s shaft, hard and eager to free itself from the constraint.  
  
“God. Please.  _Please._ ” A prayer repeated over and over in Draco’s ears as his world toppled and his vision rocked to the friction between his thighs, the ferocious beats of a heart flush against his own. Harry had knocked Draco onto the floor to straddle him but his movement was hindered by the scarlet train lumped against his legs. Patience had never been Harry’s virtue; even before his back hit the floor, Draco could already feel the strong thrusts of his hips, his hand shoving into the gap between Draco’s thighs and stroking, grabbing, keen and so eager to keep a flame alive. His lips peppered Draco’s with kisses all the while making the most desperate pleas. His other hand roamed Draco’s hips and thighs and buttocks as if he had never touched denim before; he felt and squeezed the nubs of the rivets as if they were nipples, there to set Draco’s body on fire.  
  
“Chafe” was the first word Draco could mutter under the assault before he slipped his hands between their bodies and curled his fingers around the cock there, eliciting a noise between a moan and a sob from Harry.  
  
If only Draco could pull on the shaft and soothe the skin with the fresh pre-cum smeared on the head; if only … his lust would not abandon him, his desire would not leave him cold like the stone floor.  
  
“Don’t care.” Face tilted upwards, Harry had closed his eyes. “Want …” His hand wrapped around Draco’s and propelled them both into awkward pumping motions, their knuckles tracing the curved profile of Draco’s hard cock under the jeans as if Harry could not bear to not touch it—even through the denim—for one moment. His other hand moved to cup Draco’s balls, splaying fingers probing, challenging the denim’s fortification of the flesh beneath it.  
  
Pressure built in Draco’s abdomen; he too, was ascending to the heights of pleasure. The last reinforcement he had kept under the jeans had weakened; it was damp, its inability to hold Draco back yet another wave that pushed Draco towards the summit. It would be the first time in five years that Draco could satisfy a man and not a beast. If Harry had faith in him—  
  
From Harry’s lips came a croak and the thrusts of his hips came to an abrupt halt. His hand left Draco’s and flew backwards, tore off the interfering train of the Auror robe and tossed it aside. A tub of ointment landed and tumbled beside Harry at that instant and he stabbed his fingers into its spilled content. Harry’s eyes had opened and were watching Draco. He straightened and adjusted his straddle, spread his knees apart with his feet planted on Draco’s side. An arch of his back and his hole was in Draco’s plain view, followed by fingers glistening with oil—  
  
Draco froze, his hands caught in a deadlock between wanting to touch Harry versus bringing release to himself.  
  
Harry’s fingers circled around his puckered rim, much like how they had swept over the buttons of Draco’s shirt; they pressed along the edge and triggered a wave of spasms on the flesh below—much like how they had teased Draco’s zip, toying with the toothed lock, sending notes of seduction but never attempting to break in. More pre-cum dripped onto Draco’s thighs, one translucent string after another. Like tears in slow motion, fallen over years…  
  
The hard cock left Draco’s grasp when Harry retreated, his thighs ghosting Draco’s legs until he was on his knees by Draco’s feet. Lips worried between teeth, he gazed at Draco for a moment before turning his back to him to lean forward, his head rested between his arms on the floor. What remained of the scarlet robe gathered around his waist, far too torn to hide his raised buttocks and the oiled hole between from Draco’s eyes.  
  
“I told you,” came Harry’s whisper. “I’m here to get back what I’ve lost.”

~.~

 

Zips were contraptions from the Devil.  
  
The claws malfunctioned under Draco’s trembling fingers. The grey cotton caught in between was wet and wrinkled, which was no help to Draco’s effort to pull it out. Harry chanced no glance his way—he wanted Draco to take him by his own volition—until Draco moved to stand before him.  
  
Harry’s head remained bowed. Draco went on his knees and lifted his chin. When Harry raised his eyes to meet Draco, Draco gestured at the mess on his lap, at his erection jutting out from above a lump of fabric.  
  
A soft chuckle. “Spoilsport,” Harry chided. “Stand up.”  
  
Draco stood. Harry examined and felt around the zip for a moment, then pulled the tab upward. Draco was about to protest when Harry pulled it down and the caught fabric came free. He brushed the wrinkles smooth with his fingers—a habit, no doubt, which soon turned into caresses of the swollen shaft through the cotton.  
  
“I was worried that you’d stay in the flat forever,” Harry said, still on his knees before Draco, “or you’d really find another man to be the master of your  _Castitas_. I’d wondered if I’d see someone else with my silver ring, just so your gold one had no reason to leave your finger.  _I know who I’m bonded with,_  I’d kept telling myself.  _He’s a Malfoy. His blood would not let him forget who he is_.”  
  
Harry’s palm slipped under the elastic band of the cotton brief under the jeans, the last obstacle between him and Draco’s desire for him. “Then I saw you in my jeans, flaunting them like you own them. I had to wonder—” he raised his chin to watch Draco as he snapped the elastic back into place “—if you’re wearing my pants too. Was it wet because those jeans were rubbing against your cock.” His breath hitched, its heat and moisture teasing Draco’s every nerve. “Were you hard all day against my clothes…”  
  
Harry had been among those who followed him along Diagon Alley, watching him, lusting after him. A stalker and a perv. Draco thrust his hips forward, smothering Harry with his groin; he had expected nothing more.  
  
Nothing less.  
  
“Then I thought I’d wear nothing under the robe like you used to. Just so I’d know.” Harry had leaned backwards, his lips quirked into a smile.  
  
Draco pulled him back close, his fingers combing through the dark hair. It was soft as always, wild but clean. “And?”  
  
“I’ve ordered extra robes.” Harry’s answer was muffled, his voice lost in Draco’s proximity. “ _Scourgify_  only goes so far. Those bloody folds teasing me all day... I can’t stand it any more.” With that, Harry’s mouth busied itself with Draco’s underwear, his lips parting and closing, feeling every dip and curve of Draco’s cock beneath the cotton. “I would have waited a little longer before coming here to find you, but for the sake of our citizens … The Head Auror can’t stop thinking about giving head.” With that, he pushed the brief down and swallowed Draco’s cock whole.  
  



	3. III. HUMANITAS

He had no idea how they’d got here, fucking like bunnies at the start of a work day. Thinking during sex was never one of Draco’s strengths.  
  
Especially not when Harry was straddling him, Draco’s splayed fingertips dug deep into the supple flesh of his dimpling buttocks, his hips rolling in ways only he knew how to—no doubt related to his legendary steering skills on the broom— and his inner muscles clenched and released Draco’s cock in a rhythm that was at once agonisingly slow and excruciatingly fast.  
  
Came a hard squeeze. Draco barely caught himself on the edge and retaliated. He pulled his cock almost all the way out, aimed for his prize and shoved it back in.  
  
A shout loud enough to shame a banshee pierced through his eardrum. Draco smirked, only to realise he had celebrated his victory too soon. Harry’s warm, wet hole left him cold; he was crawling on wobbly knees and arms to the centre of the bed, where the clothes they had worn and shed twice this morning alone—robe, shirt and jeans—gathered in an unceremonious heap.  
  
Harry flipped onto his back, grabbed his ankles and spread his legs wide.  
  
A snake, fugitive of Harry’s anklet, slithered between his toes. Draco closed his fingers just above the silver braid and licked from the heel and upward, until the tip of his tongue feathered a cold, forked counterpart, flickering as if wary but enticed by a predator’s advance. Under the arch of curled toes, they shared a tentative kiss, Draco and the serpent, before Draco’s mouth retraced its route and travelled along Harry’s shin and thigh, stopping to worship his cock and trailed up the flat but firm abdomen and chest. The mouth that finally received Draco’s was hot and ravenous, sucked and pulling Draco’s lips with its own.  
  
Pushed up with his arms, Draco re-aligned his body to the one below him, his place secured by the welcoming V between Harry’s thighs.  
  
Harry sighed with a smile, crooked his neck upward to offer another kiss as Draco entered him again. The sighs soon fell into moans as Draco leaned forward and folded him in half. His moans turned to hoarse cries when Draco began to pound.  
  
Draco reached for Harry’s hard cock between them and pumped it in the same pace as his thrusts. His thumb rubbed against the slit and spread the fluid on the glans, crossed the frenulum and traced the vein under the shaft.  
  
Harry arched his back and threw his head backwards. His inner walls clenched, his balls drew up and—  
  
—he shoved Draco away with his hand.  
  
Draco stopped.  
  
Harry was panting, each draw of air heavy but shallow. His face turned to one side, his damp black hair cupped his ear shell with gentle curls.  
  
Draco rested his palm on Harry’s abdomen and caressed it in circles. The tension, built up to its breaking point, seemed to find some relief in his touch. He kissed along Harry’s jawline, wetted the dark locks between his lips and nibbled the delicate skin on his ear. “All right?” he asked between his ministrations.  
  
For a moment Harry did not—could not—answer him. He calmed, his breathing smoother and deeper than before, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Wanna come,” he finally whispered, the softness of his voice laced with embarrassment. “Sorry.”  
  
Draco turned his head to face him. Specks of light wavered in the green irises; Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Voldemort, looked uncertain, almost in awe in a Malfoy’s arms. For five years, while Draco had fallen to the temptations from the Dark, Harry had kept the most private, most pleasurable part of his body untouched. The raw intensity at the finale of their coupling, the giant wave about to topple them over the edge still caught him by surprise every now and then. His innocence was almost painful to watch.  
  
But Draco was making amends. These days, he could barely keep his hands off Harry, who was guiding their intertwined fingers to his groin once more. Draco’s own erection, still buried to the hilt in Harry’s heat, pulsed as Harry folded their palms around his cock. He stilled, unsure whether Harry was ready to go on.  
  
“Scared?” Harry asked with a self-depreciating chuckle as he set their hands into motion.  
  
Draco fell against Harry, so their chests were flush against one another. “You wish,” he whispered with a smile and they were soaring again, Harry thrusting his hips upward as Draco pinned him down with his cock.  
  
Blood rang in Draco’s ears. He drove himself deep inside Harry—fast, hard and strong, sure as his heart and powerful as his need. Harry’s hands had abandoned the quest for his own release; he’d grabbed the back of his knees, opening himself for Draco, taking anything, everything that Draco was willing to give. His cries had subsided, his lust reined in by the passion in his eyes, the lush green blazing like an everlasting flame.  
  
_Pull me into the fire with you._  
  
Draco dove and he was coming, purging his all inside Harry—his every desire and sin; what made him a wizard, a man. The heat turned them into ashes, a smoke screen—for a moment, Harry’s eyes had lost their focus, unseeing of Draco reaching for and pumping his cock; his gaze locked into Draco’s once more when his body stiffened, when Draco rammed his still hard length against his prostate for the last time and he too, was coming, succumbing to the fire alight in himself.

~.~

 

“You think we’ll make it this time? Keep our socks on until we’re out the flat?” asked Harry, looking at the ceiling, his hands idly stroking up and down along his own body. He made no effort to avoid the scars and bruises or hide the slight concave of his stomach; every now and then, he clipped his nipples and played with the dark hair on his crotch.

  
His lack of self-consciousness was formidable—more seductive than the worst and most gratifying of all sins.  
  
Draco, Scourgified and back in his shirt and jeans, sat crossed-legged between Harry’s feet, planted on the Auror robe on which Harry lay, its velvet a spray of scarlet on the bed. “Third time is the charm,” he replied, pushing his hands against Harry’s bent knees to spread them further apart. “And how tardy can we afford to be?”  
  
Harry smiled. “Very tardy.”  
  
The sugary scent of the Knockturn poisons was all but a memory. The smell of sex inundated the bedroom, so strong and intoxicating that Draco could taste its musk and bitter-sweetness on his tongue. The two serpents no doubt had the same idea; distracted from their destination, they slid and twisted on Harry’s stomach, their tongues flicking against the flakes of dry cum on the skin.  
  
“Ticklish,” Harry squirmed, chuckling. Muscles tensed on his thighs and he lifted his hips from the bed.  
  
It seemed to jolt the pair of serpents to their senses. They heeded Draco’s request, slithering down Harry’s abdomen and groin, then dove and made a U-turn, their heads venturing into the shadow under Harry and out of Draco’s sight. Draco took the two tails and joined them at the tip; they thrashed against one another upon contact, battering Harry’s flesh underneath until their bodies were so ensnared in the fight that they locked each another in place.  
  
The silver plait fell against Harry’s hips. Draco acknowledged with his touch every fresh welt the serpents had made.  
  
“When will you take this off me?” Harry’s hand found Draco’s, tracing the serpentine belt with his fingertips. His tone was relaxed, as were his hips rocking as the serpents found their way—  
  
“Maybe never,” Draco drawled with a shrug, all too aware that he would yank it away long before Harry would yield to the temptation to do the same. “You look rather like a bloke enjoying himself.”  
  
Harry tilted his chin downward and watched Draco through half-lidded eyes, his lips curved in a lopsided grin. He straightened his right leg and rested it on Draco shoulder, his anklet feathering Draco with its septuplet of snakes. They stretched their necks and nibbled Draco’s skin with their defanged mouths.  
  
Looking down and under the delicate perineum, Draco caught a glimpse of what Harry intended to show him—the abysmal progress of the snakes, which accounted for prat’s amusement. The long bodies slithered back and forth along the dip between his buttocks, too drunk in the heavy scent of power to find inside Harry. What Draco had left behind in Harry’s hole probably created more confusion—  
  
Harry was laughing. “They aren’t my fans today,” he said.  
  
Draco grabbed his calves, flipped him on his stomach and straddled his back. The Auror robe got caught in the action, a rippling red moat around them. He feigned to strangle Harry with his arms. “Well, Potter. You know what to do.”  
  
“You know the command too, Malfoy. I just taught you how to say it for the umpteenth time yesterday.”  
  
“Only you can speak Parseltongue.”  
  
“Ron did it.”  
  
At the mention of the Weasel, Draco tightened his squeeze. “That would be God’s MacGuffin plan to get that bloody war over with.”  
  
Harry craned his neck sideways and taunted Draco with a grin. “Ron,” he mouthed.  
  
Draco shut him up with a kiss, which took no time to deepen. It stole their breaths and Draco could feel his denim tightening against his groin. “Do it,” he said, sucking and tasting Harry’s mouth. “Or I’ll make you keep the snakes in your arse for a month.”  
  
Even in Draco’s own ears, his threat displayed a severe lack of fangs.  
  
Harry cupped Draco’s face and read his eyes. “You want to watch. You  _like_  to watch me do this to myself. Am I right?” he asked softly, although he could not have expected an answer.  
  
Malfoy’s wants were never up for discussion; they were to be acted upon. Draco reminded Harry of this fact by narrowing his eyes.  
  
With a clean elbow strike, a push and a roll, Harry knocked Draco onto the mattress and returned to lounging on his back.  
  
“Brute—” spat Draco, but there was nothing brutal in the green eyes resting upon him, in the swollen lips filled with unspoken promises. Fallen on his knees, Draco crawled towards Harry, hypnotised by the hips rocking once more in a gentle rhythm, the rise and fall of the arch below Harry’s waist, undulating as the lean muscles on Harry’s back.  
  
Between his raised arms, Harry turned to smile at Draco. Then he closed his eyes. The rippling of his spine became more fluid, the curvature more pronounced and a light sound escaped his lips, a hiss crescendoing in waves that matched the movement of his body.  
  
The serpents’ response to Harry’s seductive plea remained unseen, but when Harry’s breath caught and his body tensed and froze, Draco knew the penetration had taken place. As the long bodies moved in deeper, the smooth hisses from Harry’s lips fractured into fragments of Parseltongue and English; sweat beads fell and pooled in the shallow furrows between his eyebrows, along the dip of his lightning scar. His pain was clear; Draco’s half-dried cum was hardly sufficient for a lubricant.  
  
Yet Harry refused to have it any other way, waiting, instead and as always, for the serpents to settle in themselves and find peace in his essence—now inseparable from Draco’s that was spilled inside him. He turned to his side, his one knee bent forward to rest on the bed, soothing his assaulted flesh with light and air. His cock was heavy and his hole stretched wide by the two bodies of silver, its rim red from abuse and spotted with what had expelled from within—  
  
Draco lost his restraint. He bowed on his knees, spread the arse-cheeks with his hands and cleansed the ring of muscle with his tongue.  _Mine,_  his mind chanted over and over again.  _Mine_.  
  
_To love. To own. To possess._  
  
Harry seemed to hear his prayer. He pulled Draco up, feathered his lips with his thumb as if all that was there was a speck of dust, then drew him in for another long, deep kiss.

~.~

 

They were three hours late for breakfast. Across the kitchen table, Harry was sipping his tea and glancing at the wall clock, mischief sparkling in his eyes. Draco was watching; two more minutes and a fundraising event that Harry was supposed to attend—by order from the Minister of Magic—would be over.  
  
_I have a better arse to kiss at home,_  he had said.  
  
That had inspired their workday-morning-bunny-fuck, Draco recalled.  
  
The clock chimed. Harry flashed a victorious grin, kicked his chair back and stood, his cock giving a light bounce between the open fronts of his robe. Above his groin was a span of skin and muscles, save for the silver plait that draped from the hipbones and went around below his waist. Draco reached out from his seat and wrapped his hand around Harry’s shaft; he massaged the branching veins with his palm while his fingers pushed back the foreskin to expose the glans.  
  
“Haven’t satisfied your Head-Auror-wear-my-snake-dildo kink yet?” Harry ground his teeth, a futile attempt to hide his smile and his gasp, and opted to uncurl Draco’s fingers one by one. The brushing and friction was no help to his burgeoning erection, in full display as he stepped backwards, hands on his waist and thumbs playing with the snakes—just as they were the belt hoops on Draco’s jeans. Bent and spread like the wings of Veelas, his elbows had drawn the Auror’s robe back further to reveal every inch of his hips and legs.  
  
He turned and walked towards the window outside the kitchen. Taking in the view of Diagon Alley, he said, “I better head back to work now.”  
  
Draco doubted Harry had spotted anything of interest; he, however, was treated with an eyeful of taut arse and vanishing serpents at every sway of the robe.  
  
Harry turned and caught him staring. He quirked his lips and  _smirked_.  
  
Minx.  
  
True to his word, Harry’s robe was soon fastened over his still semi-hard cock, his boots Summoned from the hallway and slipped on his feet. The transformation was no less than a metamorphosis. The lips, once swollen and ravenous, thinned to a tight line; the soft hue in the eyes sharpened like a hawk’s. Tight gloves snapped on Harry’s wrists, their dragon-hide smelled of nature at its most untamed.  
  
Standing before Draco was the wizard known by all, loved by most and feared by the rest. A man at the height of fame, the pinnacle of power.  
  
Who happened to have the silvery serpents from the Malfoy vault tempting him, stretching him for no one but Draco to take.  
  
Floo powder sifted through his gloved fingers. Silver dust danced in the air as Harry stepped onto the hearth, marking Draco with the steel in his gaze. He opened his mouth.  
  
Draco leaned against the wall, his chin lifted upward and his arms folded. After all these years, he could not quell the twists and coils in his stomach at these moments, his lingering fear that just before his departure, Harry would drop a statement that would be the fatal stab in Draco’s pride if not his heart, that Harry already knew of a decree to be made hours later by the Ministry, one that would take the whole world away from Draco’s hands once more.  
  
But then, a reserved—almost shy—smile broke through the smoke. Harry’s voice, soft and earnest, echoed in the rain of ashes.  
  
_I’ll be begging for your cock in my arse by eight tonight._  


  
~ Fin

 


End file.
